


Fill to Me the Parting Glass

by Boxxer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 11:55:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6955465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boxxer/pseuds/Boxxer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quick, short, unedited. Just keeping my fingers loose. Sherlock helps John learn the waltz for his wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fill to Me the Parting Glass

At the top of the stairs, Sherlock froze. From within the flat there was music, a sort of melancholy violin soliloquy—within five measures he realized it was uniquely his violin from which the music poured, the same one on which he’d played for nearly two decades, and it was his arrangement. His mouth went dry at the realization: John and Mary must be here, practicing for their… their wedding.

He opened the door slowly, respectfully, not wanting to interrupt, partially to allow them some semblance of privacy but more importantly because Sherlock knew John was having trouble “nailing the steps,” as he had so colorfully put it the previous week. Inside, it was dim. The window was curtained, the overhead light off; the lamp on their old shared desk and a few misshapen candles on the mantle reflecting in the long mirror cast the only light. Even with the few creaky floorboards by the door, any auditory evidence of Sherlock’s entrance into the flat was drowned out by the grainy track of the violin and the occasional accompanying sigh on the recording as Sherlock eased the song into a new section.

There, in the middle of the room, with all the chairs and end tables and dusty boxes pushed aside, John swayed, alone. His arms wrapped around an invisible partner, holding the nonexistent body closely— romantic but clinical. Stiff. Despite his closed eyes and clenched jaw, his socked feet stumbled every few measures and he quietly huffed his frustration.

The song was nearing its end, but when Sherlock had made this particular recording he’d played it through multiple times to allow the couple enough music to learn the dance without having to pause often to re-start the track.

“Dammit.” John’s swear was no more than a murmur but it cut through the violin solo like he’d shouted. He dropped his arms and opened his eyes, catching Sherlock in his periphery. “Oh! I didn’t know you’d come in!”

“Just a minute ago.”

“Yes. Well.” Three silent beats, and then he pointed to the laptop from which the recording still played. “Can’t quite nail the steps.”

Sherlock bit back a grin. “No?”

“Not quite, no.” Three more silent beats, an out-of-place screech from a tired violin string, then, “Listen, Sherlock… you were. Well. You were a dancer.”

“Yes.”

“Would you…”

“Help you learn the dance so you don’t embarrass yourself in front of a wedding hall full of close friends and relations?”

“I was going to say so I don’t step on Mary’s toes, but yes.”

“Of course.”

John relaxed visibly. “Thanks. I always miss the second turn.”

With concentrated, even steps, Sherlock stepped over the piles of experiments, paperwork, and household items that usually lay strewn across the room and crossed the makeshift dance floor. He faltered for half a second when he reached John, and they both blushed when John reached for his waist. “This is how I’ll hold Mary, right?”

“Like this.” Sherlock took half a step in and pushed John’s arm down so it rested on his lower back. The other hand he grasped in his own. He rested his free hand on John’s shoulder and, without his intending, his thumb rubbed a gentle circle over his soft shirt. John’s head tilted that way, an automatic movement at the surprising touch; Sherlock could feel his breath on the hairs of his forearm.

In perfect time, the song came to an end. Between the last beat of that recording and the first of the next, the only sounds were from the computer of the violin being shuffled on his shoulder and from John, the wetness of his mouth as he swallowed, preparing himself for their dance.

Sherlock counted in, “One… two… three… two… two… three… three… two… three, ready… and… go.”

By the seventh measure, John had stepped on Sherlock’s toes twice.

“Sorry, sorry!”

“No, it’s… fine. Don’t let it show you’ve made a mistake. Ready? One two three, ready and go.”

“Sorry!”

“Again. One two three, ready and go.”

As they swayed, Sherlock squeezed John’s hand. “Relax. You’re tensing, anticipating a mistake. Trust yourself.” He felt John loosen, shaking out his shoulders a little. “Good. Now don’t think about it.” When John stumbled on the next turn he huffed and made a move to stop, but Sherlock gripped his hand tighter and pulled them closer. “Don’t think about it,” he repeated as he brought them together, cheek to cheek.

John tensed again, close enough to Sherlock to hear his steady breathing and feel his hair tickling John’s temple. His skin prickled where Sherlock was pressed against him: torso, hands, cheeks, thighs. A breath, “Relax,” again, in his ear.

Allowing himself to relish in it, he spread his fingers loosely across Sherlock’s lower back and drew their clasped hands to his chest, holding the back of Sherlock’s against himself. He closed his eyes again. In the room the music was loud, full, marked by the cocktail of sounds: Sherlock on the recording, Sherlock breathing on his neck, their feet stepping gently with the slow rhythm of the waltz. It filled the room and it filled his head; he didn’t feel himself physically leaning into his dance partner but at moments he became aware that they were fitting more closely, more warmly, into each other’s holds.

“Well done,” said Sherlock as the last song on the recording drew to a close. “You haven’t missed a step.”

As the song ended an uncomfortable feeling of ridiculousness hit John; he in his casual jeans and Sherlock in his usual semi-fancy black attire, dancing alone in the dimly-lit flat, holding each other as close as a newly-married couple. He slid his hands off Sherlock’s back and out of his grasp and tucked them into his own pockets, but when he took a step back a shiver climbed his spine at the sudden chill—his body missing Sherlock’s, missing that intimate touch. Color bit his cheeks, he was sure of it, and he ducked his head. 

“Thanks. I think I’ve got it.”

“It seems so. At least now you can practice correctly. With…” Sherlock paused, looking away towards the shrouded window. “With Mary. No more stepping on her toes.” His joke fell as flat as his forced smile.

“Yes. Well.” John tapped his toes on the floor. “I should, ah… I should be off. Thanks.” With a jerky awkwardness he grabbed his shoes off the floor and headed for the door, pausing before descending the stairs for one last halted, “Thanks,” before leaving.

With the thinnest intention, Sherlock picked his violin off the desk and plucked at the strings, playing a melody-less series. Plucking strings for the sake of noise in the suddenly, shockingly empty flat. The sheet music for Waltz for Mary and John lay in a heap on the mantle, paperweighted under a grim skull. As a composer and perfectionist he had a particular knack for musical memorization, so he pulled from deep within his mind a song he'd been forced to play as a child, some Irish tune he'd resented for years-- a slow, melancholy song, one he hummed wordlessly and danced along with, stepping evenly around the room while he played, doing his best to put the waltz out of his mind.


End file.
